


Broken Wings and Cigarettes

by kate7h



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 2014, 5x04, End!verse, Gen, The End
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-19
Updated: 2012-10-19
Packaged: 2017-11-16 15:29:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/540994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kate7h/pseuds/kate7h
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'So the angels were leaving earth. Nothing angelic was to be left behind. A sweep of the planet was to be made. What was left of Castiel's grace was precious and sacred and holy and by rights Heaven's.' <br/>Castiel's fall and loss of his grace during the End!verse 5x04. Warnings: Some language, blood, torture-ish? WHUMP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Wings and Cigarettes

It had been a relatively normal day, if the ending world could have normalcy. An averaged sized squad had just returned from a mission to collect essentials: hygiene supplies, perishable foods, livestock, just the basics on such a "hunt". Castiel had gone and helped significantly, though he had his own essentials to maintain. Camp Chitaqua did not supply nor seek out cigarettes, he was on his own when it came to his very human indulgence.

Upon returning, the campers (soldiers, they should be called) bustled around or relaxed, fulfilling their own "to-do" lists. Dean was the leader of the small nirvana away from the croats which always kept his hands busy. He rested far less than he ever did before. For some reason, Castiel didn't care as much as he probably should have. He shook it off and took a long drag from his freshly looted treasure.

He walked across the camp, the wrapped paper balanced between his lips. The people didn't seem to notice much anymore. In the beginning of little Camp Chitaqua, some seemed disturbed, learning of an actual angel amongst them. To some, smoking was degrading, sinning. Castiel pondered that thoughtfully as he exhaled the grey smoke. Like some, said a hunter he'd met on the road, Castiel had found himself a "spot". It was by the side of the recreational center (which was used for strategic planning etc.) That was his spot. The ground was littered with his twenty or so cigarette butts and that brought some sort of sick pride to him. This was his free will. This was how he choose to live his life. And that was fine.

Most people didn't bother him in his spot while he was there. He wasn't quite sure why, it's wasn't as if he'd threatened them, or really noticed anyone else. It didn't really matter, and he preferred the time to himself anyway.

Sometimes Dean would come, though. He never said much, but he looked sullen, disappointed, or at least he had when Castiel had started the habit. Dean had completely avoided him in his spot for the first few months, walk far out of the way just to go across the camp. Castiel felt slightly guilty when the thought pathetic crossed his mind. After time had passed the habit didn't matter to Dean much anymore. Discomfort was a part of life, there was no getting around it. Whether it was poor hygiene, deep-fried cravings, or lowered morals, it didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Everyone just had to get over it, even Dean Winchester.

The sun was shining though the breeze was cold. He pulled his thick jacket tighter around him as he dragged in the smoke. It warmed him against the chill. He exhaled sharply as words entered his mind. The angels, his garrison, were babbling faster than any human mind could possibly process. He heard their hopelessness. They're giving up. They had lost hope in humanity, in paradise, in their brother and father. And just as suddenly as it had began, it stopped.

They were gone.

Once he'd thought that that, pain erupted throughout his entire being. He gasped, dropping his freshly lit cigarette on the ground. He fell to his side on the hard gravel, grinding his body against it until he was curled into the fetal position. The phantom pain was a bitch. He turned his face into the tiny rocks, trying to hide from it. It did not work. It was as if the thing that had seized him, took him by the his every muscle and shook him. He had no control. He couldn't make a sound, not even a sound of protest as the very human tears of agony dropped into the sediment.

"Cas?" He heard someone call out to him, running, kneeing. "Hey! Somebody help! Cas needs help!"

Castiel could hear and feel despite his eyes being shut tight. There were more people gathered around him, their feet shuffling, voices murmuring. He tried to focus on their sounds. It helped, but not much. He started when hands touched him, lifting him into the air. His inability to control his thrashing didn't help the people carrying him very much. He didn't care. He just wanted them all to leave, let him wallow in his torture. Their pitying tones were grating. Castiel wanted to tell each of them to go screw themselves, though he feared if he unclamped his jaw he would bite off his own tongue.

"What's going on?" said Howard or Howie, the physician of camp, above all the noise of everyone else.

"Don't know, Howie. He was just having a smoke and started seizing."

As the conversation went on, Castiel was placed on the medical cot, his arms and legs still jerking as someone held down on his chest, making it hard to breathe.

"What do you want us to do? He's gonna fall off if we let go," a man from above him spoke.

"I want you to use your freakin head, CJ. Tie him down so he doesn't hurt himself! And everybody except anybody who's doing stuff out! This isn't a damn hospital! Hey, has anyone got Dean yet?"

The ropes were tight and inadequately tied, Castiel thought in the back of his mind. CJ had tied the ties about his wrist directly against his skin. As his movement were rather forceful, the bounds would leave burns. Damn.

"Yeah, Chuck went when we found him."

The door to the cabin had been opening and closing, heavy footfalls of combat boots treading across, exiting the small space, or doing as Howie had told them. One set he recognized. The false confidence was hard to miss in all the years Castiel had known Dean Winchester.

"What's happening, Howie," Dean's gruff voice said right above Castiel.

"You know what? Screw yourself, Winchester. What the hell do I know about angel anatomy?! Maybe he has the angelic measles!"

Castiel couldn't hear anymore. Their voices turned into low hums that slowly faded into silence. The silence was replaced with a familiar shrill, ear-piercing sound. The sound filled the room; his nails dug into his palms, teeth clenched, eyes wide. Abruptly, he was being pulled. Yanked against the ropes that held him to the cot. An invisible force was heaving him towards Heaven.

The world around him was blank, though he had not passed out. All Castiel could see was blinding white. It burned hot through him, his own grace blistering his mind. It took him a moment to focus through the throes and his being used to darkness, but he could see them. The room held half a dozen angels unburdened by human vessels. They were no longer speaking, he swore he could feel them mocking, taunting, reprimanding. But none said a word. Castiel had fallen; he was worth no more than a cold shoulder and a forgetful eye if that.

So they were leaving earth. Nothing angelic was to be left behind. A sweep of the planet was to be made. What was left of his grace was precious and sacred and holy and by rights Heaven's. Castiel felt each of their brutal, burning hands grasp his inner light and pull it away from him. They scratched and pried and clawed at him. They were so righteously stoic, so close to him, so close to this abomination, this walking blasphemy. Even as they groped him for every last bit of power and hope he had left, not a word was uttered.

Throughout the hours, days (who knew how long) they raked him, Castiel wondered why hadn't anyone noticed a room full of celestial light? Or had their eyes burned from their sockets as delicate as these angels were so keen on being. Stealing a quick glance he surveyed the room. Dean was sitting at the far end of the cabin cleaning his shotgun. Howie was anxious as he sent an angry look at Dean. Neither seemed to notice the plethora of angels. Their light must've been masked to humans.

And the light was fading to Castiel whose own was being snatched away. He was becoming human.

"No," he'd meant to shout it loud, be the strong leader he once was, make them listen, stop, but his voice was weak and pleading. He felt pity in a few of the angels. More were enraged. They yanked at the barbed edges of his grace with savagery. Castiel couldn't hold in his cries of pain any longer. Dean was there talking above his head, but he couldn't make out the words. His screams were too loud.

Just as suddenly as it had begun, it ended. The light faded and the angels left with a flutter of wings. Dean, Castiel, and Howie were alone in a candlelit cabin, the dusty sunlight peeking in from the drawn drapes.

The world stood still for the first time it seemed (or Castiel had stopped seizing, whichever). Howie pressed his hand to Castiel's throat, feeling for a heartbeat.

"Not sure what the usual heart rate for an angel is, but he's still got a pretty strong pulse for a human."

"He's always been strong," Dean's voice was quiet and low, tired.

Castiel did not feel strong. He felt entirely too weak. He feared standing on two feet in case he toppled over like an infant, unused to the weight (or weightlessness.) He wanted to scream and block out this mutilated reality he'd somehow fallen into. He longed to find himself the nearest cliff and take a swan dive. He wanted to lock himself away forever and weep in self pity for everything he'd given up and where it had landed him. A stranded human on a broken earth, cut off from home, bitter and alone.

Not alone. Dean was there. The reason he'd fallen in the first place. Because the "People on the planet are worth saving." Apparently that was a lost cause. The planet was in ruins, the people diseased and homicidal. The was no saving the humans. And there was no saving Castiel, for he was one of them, now. He had fallen utterly and completely, and for what? To witness the end of the world first hand? To die bloody along with anyone he ever came to care for? All in the name of "free-will?"

"Castiel! Hey!" Castiel was roused from his thoughts by Dean's voice, a hand shaking his shoulder roughly. Castiel realized he'd been released from his bounds as his arms came into view, his wrists blistered and bleeding. Great.

"Ye-yeah," Castiel said, pushing Dean's hand away. He rubbed his face, not tempting fate by lifting his head for fear of emptying the contents of his stomach into his lap or onto Dean's shoes.

"What the hell was that?" Dean demanded as he pulled his chair beside the cot to sit beside Castiel.

Castiel tried to pull himself upright despite his stomach's protest. He did not want Dean looming over him in such a pitying position. His wrists felt as if they were being sliced as well as his insides. He choked, heaving as his own blood gurgled from his throat. Howie helped him to sit up and lean against the wall. It did not help his dizziness.

Coughing into his sleeve, Castiel averted his eyes to the worn cotton threads of the cot, woven together with the strength to sustain the weight of a fully grown man. It was just sinking in what had happened. What he had lost. His family, his life, gone. Though they had been gone before, there was always that slim possibility that he could return if he wished. His mind, coming from the hazy wake of pain, was darkened with depression, fury, fear, and shame; emotions with such intensity his head ached as he tried desperately to process them. He had no idea what to do with himself, so he reverted back against the wall, curling in on himself, ignoring completely the other two men in the room.

"Hey Howie, I'll patch up his wrists. Why don't you let Cas and me have a chat."

Howie looked up from where he'd been collecting supplies to bandage Castiel's blistered wrists, moments ago muttering about how CJ was an imbecile and he was going to pound his face in.

"Oh, yeah. And you've had thirteen years of medical practice?"

"No, but I've patched up plenty of wound way worse than this and I'm still the leader of this camp. Get some air," Dean's voice was low and commanding. It was almost impossible not to follow him over a cliff with that surety.

Howie just shook his head, handed Dean his sterile supplies and bounded his way out of the cabin.

Castiel looked back down at the fine threads of the cot as Dean settled himself before him on the chair. Dean reached out and shook his shoulder. Castiel's eyes flicked upwards, annoyance beneath his weariness.

"Cas? You with me?" Dean's eyes were locked on his, the green dull and hopeless as they had been for some time.

Dean was gripping Castiel's shoulder with the physical strength he had always possessed, Castiel had just never realized how little spiritual strength there was beneath it. Dean was like a dog at times (a semi-intelligent dog, but a dog none the less), following orders until he proved himself to be in the right, then he chased his own tail. Castiel stared blankly at Dean, his jaw clenching without his permission.

"I'm with you," And he was, and he always would be, no matter what anger he suddenly realized was directed at his fearless leader. Dean was his companion. They were brothers in arms. Inseparable. Fighting side by side to ward off the apocalypse didn't mean you couldn't feel bitter towards one another now and again.

"Do you need me to bandage this up? Or are you okay with fixing it yourself," Dean looked concerned, his hands clasped in unease.

Castiel felt an odd desire to laugh, it was better than crying, or shouting. Calm words seemed the best route.

He whispered hoarsely from underuse, "I can't." He said the phrase slowly in case he was to quiver.

Dean stopped for a moment, "You can't? Alright, let's get you back to angel ship shape and you'll be good as new, okay?"

Castiel let his eyes fall to the fabric again. It hurt, in every sense of the word. He didn't want to feel this hole, this emptiness, this vacuum that was his very being. He was nothing. Not human, not angel, not anything.

"Dean, I'm not..." He started to cough, the discomfort distracting him from his inner turmoil for a brief moment.

Dean scooted his chair a bit closer, the sound of wood on wood raking split the silence like a knife cutting flesh. Dean's hand came to rest on his back, a pressing weight that was uncomfortable while he gagged on his own fluids. He coughed for a few more strenuous moments before he could sit back again, his back arching against the wall as Dean moved his hand to Castiel's shoulder.

Sighing, Dean patted him lighted and picked up his pile Howie had handed him before, "I'm gonna patch these up for you, alright?"

Castiel didn't respond, letting Dean help him shrug carefully out of his jacket, his wrists stinging each time they made contact with the inside sleeve. Once that was done, Dean had an old (probably clean) towel in his hand that he held beneath Castiel's wrist, a bottle of brown alcohol in the other. Dean got a different look about him when he "played doctor" as he called it; his hands moved with motor precision, as he'd done it many times for a different patient.

The alcohol hurt as it seared into his rope burns, cleansing the flesh of any infections the bounds might have carried. He winced, taking a sharp breath. Dean glanced up from his work, "Don't be such a baby."

It was impossible to think. Castiel's mind, soul, had been raked, bruised, and mangled. Dean was bound to ask soon as their lack of conversation was blatant, but he could not begin to describe the experience. Everything about it had hurt in every possible way. There were no words to explain the wide range of emotions he felt. They would not come of his own accord. His thoughts were already chaotic, conjoining sentences and speaking of it was too much, too soon.

Well, Dean had never been one for patience.

"What was happening to you, man? You had everyone worried," Dean finished tying off his wrist bandage, moved the chair around the cot and began anew on his right wrist. That time as Dean poured the whiskey, Castiel kept in his discomfort. Hardly let himself twitch. Dean did not look up and insult him as he had drops rolled down the soaked cloth between Dean's fingers and onto the bed. One. Two. Three.

Snap.

"Cas, hey, answer me," Dean was looking now. His eyes were fixed squarely on Castiel's. His hands still moving as if they had been made to produce such a wrapping movement.

Castiel shook his head slightly, his left hand covering his knee gingerly, as to not agitate the fresh wounds, "It is... hard to explain."

Dean's browed creased, "What, like angel mid-life crisis?"

Castiel's jaw clenched. Flashes of the angels brutality, his torture. Yes, he was obviously in the right state of mind for childish jokes. He glanced over at Dean for an instant, seeing him looking down and away as well. Castiel shook his head once slightly, nearly astounded if he had not already been so overwhelmed.

The air was tense between them as they sat without speaking. It happened quite often as of late. Dean noticed as well. Most of the time they tended to avoid each other's company for the sake of company. It made life in this hell-hole a tad more breathable. Yet, harder if it made any sense. Their friendship was withering, decaying at an exponential rate. Castiel felt helpless to stop it. Sometimes he wasn't sure if he wanted to. Dean was sinking further and further down each day, no one there to level him out, keep him sane. Dean was a stone sinking, the end was nigh, and Castiel just didn't want to care anymore.

"How long was it happening?" Castiel asked.

Dean jarred himself. He did so on the occasions Castiel broke their overbearing silences. Usually one or the other would just leave, "About five hours. How long did it feel like to you?"

Castiel pursed his lips, letting a sullen mask fall over his face, covering any raw emotions that might try to escape, "Maybe a week."

Dean nodded, his eyes falling to the floor as his hand covered his mouth.

Clarity filled Castiel's mind the more he was able to think. Clarity and confusion and emotions he couldn't say. Questions he needed to answer. His thoughts conformed: Why now? Why so personally? Surely they were fulfilling some sort of vendetta? Perhaps at the hand of Zachariah? No. That was most likely a part of it, but there had be something else. They wanted to vacate without a trace, extract the angelic presence from the tainted world as much as they could. Why hadn't they done it before when the virus had first started to spread? Something had changed.

Then it hit him like a war hammer. A battering ram. For a moment he could name the emotion raging inside him: grief. He was grieving. Castiel bowed his angels had all left because one very important person had lost his hope. And Castiel was the one who had to tell that person's brother.

"Dean," Castiel said warily. He knew once the words were out he would be releasing a storm. The information was vital, yet it stuck in his throat.

Dean met his eyes, "Yeah Cas?"

Castiel brought his hands together, his fingers intertwining rapidly. Why could he not speak?

"What was happening- it was unpleasant..."

Dean laughed nervously, "Ya think?"

Castiel rolled his eyes, a sharp nod as he jutted his chin out, his lip curled, "Those were my brothers and sisters."

The chair beside him creaked as Dean leaned forward, "You mean angels? They were here? To torture you? Why?"

"They were here, but they've gone and they won't come back now," Castiel turned his head slowly to look at Dean. His brow was furrowed in confusion.

"They've gone back to Heaven with no intention of returning to earth."

Dean froze then. Just froze. His posture was still as a stone. Castiel could feel the muscles in his shoulders tense in apprehension, for Castiel imagined for a split second the similarities between Dean and a feline poised to kill. Castiel braced himself, for he had not yet spoken the worst.

"They just left?" Dean's voice was low, menacing. Castiel felt a chill go down his spine. The weaves in the blanket on his lap were suddenly very interesting.

"Yes."

Dean sniffed. An unexpected clatter jerked Castiel's head up. Dean had already tromped across the room, the chair fallen to the wooden floor, "What the hell, man. What about destiny? And- and Michael and Lucifer and the DAMN APOCALYPSE!"

Castiel flinched. The cabin's space was much too small Dean's voice, it made Castiel shrink as much as he could against the wall, his face hard.

"All that crap about me being the Michael sword? Paradise and stopping Lucifer? What was that? Some second rate plan they could just throw away once the devil threw the freakin Croatoan virus at the world?"

Dean didn't shout for very long. He settled down after a few minutes, his face grim and ashen as he stood his chair up again and took his seat, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.

"You've gotta be kidding me," he said that quietly, as if subjecting, accepting. He took a deep breath, "What else? Why'd they hurt you, Cas?"

At those words, Dean's stare was too much. Castiel averted his eyes, though he could feel the bitterness oozing into his words, "They took what was rightfully theirs."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Dean sounded tentative.

Castiel glanced at him, then stared again at his hands, jaw clenched with rage, "They took my grace." His voice was stronger than he felt. The hollow feeling they had left made his head light, his borrowed flesh weak.

He saw Dean sit back out of the corner of his eye, hand rubbing across his chin and mouth, "Son of a bitch."

Castiel scrutinized Dean darts of his anger were once again aimed at Dean Winchester. Dean who had had him fall as low as the most hated angel ever could and keep going. Dean who had taught him the significance of agency and how it only left you in the same sticky pit a command would have landed you. Dean who had taught him that family and friendship was the most important thing any person could have until it got hard. Dean Winchester had taught Castiel how to be human, and Castiel hated him for it.

"Yes, you don't have an angel in your camp anymore. You'll have to settle for one more useless, untrained human, fearless leader."

Dean flinched, hurt flashing across his face as he drew his eyes down. Castiel hated that Dean was hurt, and he hated himself for caring even more. It didn't matter whether he hated Dean or feared him or idolized him, it didn't matter that Castiel hated himself more than any of those. None of those mattered; it was the damn apocalypse. He pushed the emotions down. They were not of import.

"Dean, they didn't leave without a cause."

Dean didn't look up, but he was listening. There was no way he couldn't be.

One word changed the charge in the air of the cabin. Their space which was hot with malice and bitterness turned cold as Castiel spoke his name, "Lucifer."

Castiel watched as Dean's eyes came up, panic laced with the green. His shoulders were slouched as he guessed what came next.

"He's..." Castiel could feel the weight of the years, the millennia he carried in his mind. The memories of time and battles infinite. He felt it all right at that moment where he told the righteous man of his brother's "death."

"He's found his vessel. Sam said yes."

Dean looked as though he'd been shot in the heart. The behavior equivalent to man dying slowly but surely, bleeding out faster than anyone could stop, but in immense agony. It wasn't the first time Castiel had seen Dean Winchester weep. Before Dean had cried for the weight of the apocalypse being on his shoulders. Castiel had been mournful for him at that time. Now, all he felt was spite, anger (again.) Dean was a man who hadn't even spoken to his brother in years, hadn't tried to prevent him from saying yes to the devil. Dean expected Sam to make the right decision on his own. The boy did have a track record. Yet Dean wept, like it was Sam's fault.

Castiel did not weep. Partly because he wasn't entirely sure how to weep in grief, partly because he was too filled with bitterness to mourn in such an outright way. He was "in shock" from all the events of that day, year, ever since he'd rescued Dean from hell. His grace had been torn from his very being, he didn't even know what he was anymore. Sam, a friend, was lost to one of the most fearsome entities in the universes. The grief he was feeling was not one that could be expressed through something as simple as tears.

There was no comfort in anything from then on. The righteous man had sinned and the angel had fallen. The devil had won and Heaven was gone. What was the use in hope?

~&~

A/N: Just saying, this was in no way a dis on Dean. I love him to bits, it's just 2014!Cas was really very angry at him. Their relationship was not in a good place. On a side note, I would love to hear your thoughts on this! Thanks for reading this far


End file.
